


Won’t You be the One (to calm the storm)

by FaeryQueen07



Category: Live Free or Die Hard (2007)
Genre: Exhibitionism, Fisting, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-05-19
Updated: 2012-05-19
Packaged: 2017-11-05 14:54:43
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,848
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/407726
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/FaeryQueen07/pseuds/FaeryQueen07
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sometimes, sex with Matt pushes all of John boundaries, but sometimes it doesn't. Either way, it's everything John could ever want.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Won’t You be the One (to calm the storm)

**Author's Note:**

> I figure, in for a penny… If fisting is not your cuppa, fear not. It is completely avoidable if you skip the third section (they're all numbered). You don't need to read that part to enjoy the rest! The title comes from the Graffiti6’s song, _Calm the Storm_.

Sometimes, Matt likes to do it like this:

1.  
John gets home late, another long day from hell curving his shoulders down and making the lines of his face stand out more harshly. He strips off his jacket, but leaves his gun holster on, his boots thudding gently against the hardwood as he heads for the kitchen. There’s a bottle of Coke on the table, still cold and the lid off, and he takes the first sip as he sinks down onto a chair. He’s almost done by the time Matt wanders in, and John watches him, waits for the other shoe to drop.

“Bad day?”

It’s a rhetorical question, so John doesn’t answer, just continues to stare as Matt peers out the windows, and opens cabinets at random. When he’s done doing whatever it is he’s doing, he pulls another Coke from the fridge and takes a seat across from John. He opens the bottle and slides it over to John, the metal lid dancing between his fingers. 

In. Out. Over. Under.

It’s mesmerizing, and John finds himself trying to track each movement. Matt clearing his throat drags John’s attention away from his hands and up to his face.

“What?” John asks, because he can see it simmering beneath the surface, some request, some favor, that Matt is waiting to ask for.

“I want you to fuck me right here,” Matt says, the words tumbling out in a rush that leaves John just as breathless. 

“Fuck,” John says, and then he does. 

He opens Matt up with fingers slicked with olive oil. Pushes in one and then two, and takes solace in the fact that Matt is still hard when John thrusts in too fast, too soon. He can’t stop once he’s in, but Matt is pushing back against him, begging for _more_ , for John to _please, fuck me harder_ , never once pulling away. When John comes, it’s with a shout, and the tension that’s been holding his whole body tight rushes out of him with his release.

He drops to his knees after, pulls Matt’s cheeks apart and feels like a brute when he sees how red Matt’s hole is, the skin puffy and irritated. He’s surprised there’s no bleeding, but the real shock comes when John rubs his thumb around the swollen ring and Matt _moans_. It’s then that he notices Matt is still hard and leaking, and John thinks it’s only right that he reward this amazing young man. 

John turns him around with gentle hands on his hips, then swallows Matt’s cock at the same time that he twists four fingers up and _in_. The sound Matt makes as he comes is as close to a sob as one can get without actually crying. His body quakes with the aftershocks, and John presses his cheek to Matt’s stomach and rides them out with him.

2.

He’s a cop, so he’s never really had the inclination to do this, not like Holly used to, or Matt does. The repercussions for getting caught with your pants down in public aren’t worth it, not for John. But when there are no consequences, when they’re standing in the middle of the seediest club John has ever been in, and there are people having sex on couches not two feet from him, it’s as easy as 1-2-3 to let Matt have his way. 

Just this once.

The fingers sliding his belt free are too steady for someone who’s been doing shots all night, but it’s dark in the club, and if John is honest, he hasn’t really been paying attention to what has been going into Matt’s mouth. He thinks maybe he’s been played, but it’s hard to be mad when Matt is sucking kisses along his collar and rutting against his leg. 

John tips his head back against the wall, deliberately not thinking about how dirty it is, and closes his eyes against the pulsing blue-red-green-purple lights overhead. His head is swimming, like maybe he’s had too much to drink, but John’s been straight for years now. No, the lightheadedness, the warmth, the way each breath seems to drag it’s way up from the very depths of his lungs, those are all because of Matt.

He honestly thinks he’s just in for a handjob, but then Matt sucks one last kiss high on John’s neck and then pulls away. John opens his eyes just in time to watch him drop to his knees. Matt doesn’t bother with coy—he tried, once, and the result was more amusing than sexy—just fixes his gaze on his prize, blowing gently against the head of John’s dick. It jumps and John groans, head thudding back against the wall once more. 

Matt teases him briefly, but then he’s down to business, taking John in fast and deep. He pulls back, teases at the tip with his tongue, then sucks just the head into his mouth. This isn’t going to last long. _John_ isn’t going to last. He reaches down blindly, finds Matt’s head and cradles it in his hands. When his hips stutter forward, Matt doesn’t stop him, just mutters around his cock.

John can’t hear the words, but he knows what Matt is saying. He tightens his grip, then thrusts forward, groaning louder when he feels Matt swallow around his dick. No matter how many times they do this, it always surprises him, how much Matt enjoys this. When you add in the fact that they’re in public, that there are at least two couples watching them, gazes hungry, it’s like everything John normally feels has been magnified by two hundred.

“Shit. Shit, Matt—”

Matt hums, and opens his throat just a little bit wider. He does look up, then, fringe half-obscuring his face. John can see enough of his eyes to read what’s there. Matt is challenging him, and John gives in. His thumbs press along the hinges of Matt’s jaw, not hard enough to hurt, but there will be marks. He grunts as he shifts his weight away from the wall, and he starts fucking his way into Matt’s mouth in earnest. He takes with a greediness he doesn’t normally allow, hips rolling forward just as quickly as he pulls them back. He finds a rhythm that allows Matt to breathe in short bursts; not enough to fill his lungs properly, but adequate.

When he’s close, he bites out Matt’s name, low and inaudible over the music, but somehow Matt hears him anyway. He pulls back just a little, right as John begins to come, and it catches him across the cheek and forehead, drips down over one eye. Then he leans back in, sucking John through the last waves of his orgasm, never once making a move to clean himself up.

John is dragging Matt back to his feet even before he’s had a chance to catch his breath. He’s still hanging out of his pants, but that barely even registers for him as he turns them around, shoving Matt into the wall. Before Matt, John had never even considered the idea of licking his come off another person’s face,—let alone put it there in the first place—but he does it now, his hand inside Matt’s jeans, working his dick hard and fast. He drags his mouth down to Matt’s when he’s done, and he bites at Matt’s lips, demanding access because he wants to taste himself there as well.

“Next time I’ll bend you over that couch, fuck you there, so everyone can see how desperate you are for it.”

Matt bucks up into his fist and comes with a gasp. John works him through the aftershocks, then keeps going, hungry for all the hurt little noises that slip out of Matt’s mouth when he reaches that point of being too sensitive. With one last, reluctant tug, John pulls his hand free, then sets their clothes to rights. The couple closest to them is openly staring, and when John meet’s the eyes of the younger man, he winks. Then he’s ushering Matt out of the club and into the cool night.

3.

“—and then I got online and spent five hours playing the new Call of Duty game that’s supposed to hit stores in a few months.”

Matt’s been rambling for the past twenty minutes and despite what he probably thinks, John has actually heard everything he’s said. He thinks he likes the way Matt’s voice dips low when he mentions wearing John’s old academy shirt around the house, about playing his game in nothing but that and a pair of John’s boxers. John kind of wants to know if Matt at least wore a clean pair, but he’s too afraid of the answer to ask. 

“After that,” Matt continues, and he’s really caught John’s attention now, because his voice is a little deeper and a lot huskier. “After that I spent some time thinking.”

“Thinking?” Thinking, for Matt, tends to revolve around either mathematical coding or John’s dick, and only one of those holds any interest for him.

“I was thinking about space. And mass. I was thinking about how sometimes I get really wired when I’ve had too many energy drinks, and how you bring me back down. About when you push your fingers inside me while you’re fucking me and how it hurts, but it also feels really good.” His eyes go dark and John’s next breath is ragged. “I was thinking about how full I feel when you do that.”

John swallows hard and tries to remember that he’s too fucking old to be going from zero to sixty, but apparently no one told his body that. He’s hard as a rock inside his jeans, but he desperately wants to hear where Matt is going with this. He gets his answer when Matt wraps his hand around John’s fist, the brown of his eyes nearly blotted out by pupils blown wide.

“I bet I could be fuller. I know it’s possible, that my body could stretch around your entire fist. I think you should do it. I think you should put it in me,” Matt concludes, squeezing John’s fist.

“Fucking hell,” John wheezes, but once he no longer feels like all the air has been sucked out of his lungs, he does just that.

They use the Crisco John picked up for the piecrust Matt never made, and they make a mess of the bed, floor and beside table. John probably goes a little overboard, but by the time he’s working his fourth finger in, Matt is incoherent, his fingers tangled sharp in the sheets, twisting and tugging as he struggles not to shove back onto John’s hands. There’s a fine sheen of sweat coating his entire body and his cock is so hard it’s nearly purple, come dribbling down to pool on his stomach. He’s shaking with need, and John slides a hand up, soothes it over the taut stretch of belly, holding Matt down while he fucks him in short, hard jabs.

John pulls his fingers out, and he takes a moment to just watch the way Matt’s hole flutters, like it wants to close, but can’t. Then he’s smearing more of the Crisco over his hand, up past the meaty part, to the jut of his wrist bones. He carefully works some into Matt as well, then sinks four fingers in and holds them there. Matt’s mouth moves soundlessly, but John can read lips. He knows that Matt is chanting _doitdoitdoit_ , and he obliges.

Working in his thumb isn’t easy, even after the last hour of prep, but as they move through the final stretch, as Matt whines, high and sharp in his throat, John can’t help but think, but wonder, just what he’s done to warrant this level of trust. He curves all his fingers in, collapses his hand into a duckbill, because it feels rights, feels _natural_ , and leans down to press a kiss to the inside of Matt’s knee.

“You gotta open up for me, Matty,” John croaks, and Matt _does_.

Matt’s body goes liquid and _soft_ around John’s hand, and just like that, he’s inside. Matt is making these wrecked noises, and John curls his fingers into a fist, pumping once, carefully. When Matt moans, he does it once more, then again. With each delicate thrust, he changes the angle of his fist, until his knuckles brush over Matt’s prostate and he _keens_.

John has always found sex noises to be weird and slightly embarrassing, even second-hand, but with Matt, it’s different. With Matt, John memorizes them, uses them to discover what Matt loves the most. Matt is whimpering and gasping right now, his head tipped back so that the long stretch of his throat is exposed. John growls and pushes down with the hand still flat on Matt’s belly, fucking him just a little harder, catching Matt’s prostate between his fist and his palm.

When Matt comes, it’s with a sound that is almost— _almost_ —a scream. John will tease him about it later, but right now, he’s completely focused on watching the way Matt’s come paints stripes over his chest and belly. A little lands on Matt’s chin, just beneath his lip, and John curses when Matt licks it away before he can. He wants to pull his fist out, but Matt is still gripping him like vice, so he waits, soothing the last shocks of Matt’s orgasm out of him.

After he’s pulled his fist free and he’s wiped the worst of the mess off, John slicks his cock with some of the Crisco dripping out of Matt’s hole, then ruts against his thigh. It’s messy and uncoordinated, but it’s fucking perfect and that’s really all that matters. John comes with a muffled groan, his mouth clamped over the curve of Matt’s shoulder, sucking a bruise into the pale skin there. 

Matt passes out like that, and sleeps through John cleaning him up. He doesn’t so much as twitch as John uses two fingers to force out the mess inside him, wiping Matt’s skin down with a warm cloth. The sheets are a wreck, so he strips them off the bed, out from under Matt, and manages to get a new one on the mattress. Then he’s climbing in beside Matt, pulling the comforter up over them both and tumbling headfirst into sleep.

 

4\. 

Sometimes, though… Sometimes it’s like this:

Matt is exhausted, his body bruised from the hours he spent learning how to fall and use that momentum to bring an attacker down with him. John thinks maybe he should wake the kid up, get him into the bath to soak off the worst of it, but then Matt is reaching for him, pulling him in. John goes easily because it’s Matt, and that’s what John does when the kid touches him like this: with need tempered by exhaustion.

It is clear Matt isn’t up for much, but the want is plain in his eyes. John isn’t one to deny him—can’t, if truth be told—so he takes over. He stretches Matt’s limbs out, takes his time pressing his lips to the bruises already darkening Matt’s pale skin, and gently shifts until Matt is pinned beneath him. He rolls his hips tentatively, wanting to be sure that this is what Matt wants, and when he gets the reaction he’s hoping for, he does it again.

Matt’s mouth opens with a sigh when John kisses him, and it’s like their first kiss, when John had woken up to find Matt in his bed, sleep-rumpled head resting on one of John’s pillows, their mouths meeting through the haze of the too-early morning. That kiss had been unplanned, though not exactly unforeseen. Since then, they’ve shared hundreds of kisses, all of them varying in degrees of intensity. In the last four years, Matt has taken everything John thought he knew about himself and turned it inside out and upside down.

John keeps up the slow rut, less concerned about his own orgasm than he is about Matt achieving his own. He can feel where Matt has begun to leak through his flannel pants, and he reaches down between them, squeezes just the head of Matt’s dick with his fingers. Matt makes a noise low in his throat, but John catches it before it escapes, swallows it down and makes it his own. Rolling his hips with a bit more purpose, John lowers his body, lets more of it come to rest on Matt, and smiles fondly at Matt’s groan of appreciation.

This time, when they come, there are no shouts, no fervently writhing bodies. There’s just John and Matt, still separated by two layers of clothing, half-asleep, but content. They’ll be a mess in the morning, their sleep pants stiff to the point of chafing, their skin tacky. But for right now, this is perfect. It’s all they need. They fall asleep like that, still pressed together, and John thinks there’s no better way to end the day than like this.


End file.
